


Off the straight and narrow path

by strawberriesandtophats



Series: Insomnia [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Chronic Illness, Established Relationship, Insomnia, M/M, The old 'distact the Cardinal with sex' trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25752775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: “Come on, then, you silk-swaddled bag of bones,” Treville told Richelieu, whose eyes kept falling shut and then snapping open again. “Let’s get you inside your damn office.”
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Series: Insomnia [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868152
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	Off the straight and narrow path

Diligence was important.

Diligence was everything.

Treville spent so much of his waking hours ensuring that his men were training properly, learning how to serve their country, were working hard enough so not to get into too much trouble.

Making damn sure that they would survive the day, the week, the year.

But they were also young enough for him to consider them to be overgrown children that were prone to making rash decisions and forgetting to eat their dinner. It was often better to make it clear that he’d be disappointed in them if they misbehaved, as it was more effective than shouting.

His Musketeers wanted him to be proud of them, they wanted to rise to the occasion and to do their job well. And there was a certain satisfaction in how they’d shuffle off to bed after they’d eaten, being mindful that there would be training in the morning and a full day of work.

Richelieu did not want any of that. It did not matter much to him if Treville liked him or not, because most of that time that was not even the case. And he knew perfectly well that he was the best of the best and did his job so well that he’d become indispensable to the king and the country.

The man had a whole team of doctors to tend to his health, the best that were available. It was not Treville’s responsibility to take care of him, mentally or emotionally.

And yet Treville could not ignore the bloodstains that decorated Richelieu’s handkerchiefs, how his hands shook when he thought that no one was looking, how he was mercilessly working himself into the grave.

Shovel in hand, digging with his bare hands until there was earth underneath his fingernails and gravel-scratches on his forearms.

Over the years, Treville had become used to the days where Richelieu would almost sway with exhaustion, the bags underneath his eyes black and his eyes bloodshot. They were common enough to be a part of everyday life, a sign that he would soon become bedridden and ill and his mood low.

But now the grand smile had been wiped from his face, his hands shook too much for him to be able to work all night long, he’d grown as pale as snow.

Even his voice was mostly gone, he’d lapse into long and terrifying silences in between cutting remarks or conversations with the king.

The younger Musketeers did not come near him, preferring to stand guard near the door or behind Treville, like children behind their mother’s skirts.

Even the more experienced ones looked frightened by now, trailing behind Treville as he guarded the king.

The Cardinal hasn’t slept, they muttered to each other?

How long do you think it has been since he’s even seen his bed?

A week?

Two?

You could make it a few days if you napped a bit even if you stayed up all night, but surely at some point you’d need a whole night in bed?

Today, Treville had found himself slowing his pace so to allow Richelieu to walk beside him without stumbling, his body too tired to keep up with him. And he’d seen the anger at that realization, too. The twist of Richelieu’s lips, the glare that he’d shot in Treville’s direction.

And Treville had taken that three-second opportunity, giving Richelieu his most charming grin instead of letting him pick a fight that would only grow more brutal as the minutes went by.

_I know you, that grin said, down to the marrow in your bones._

_I know the taste of your lips and the timbre of your voice and the feel of your ribs against my fingertips._

_Your darkest fears, your brightest hopes, even your dreams._

_I’ve held your heart in my hand, dripping blood on the floor._

_And you let me._

“Captain Treville,” Richelieu said, his eyes just a fraction wider, a terrible smile on his face.

A mirror of his own, certainly.

“Cardinal,” Treville replied, not backing down. Behind him, he could hear his Musketeers shifting, their hands hovering as if they were mentally readying themselves for a fight. “I need a word with you.”

“Do you?” Richelieu asked, not even acknowledging the fact that the Musketeers were looking increasingly confused and alarmed.

The king was watching them as if one would watch a highly interesting play.

“If his majesty allows,” Treville said, straightening his back and tightening the grip on his broad-brimmed hat.

As if Louis had not had a word with him already.

As if he hadn’t ordered Richelieu to rest. Multiple times, over the last few days.

“Yes, yes,” Louis said, his voice torn between being impatient and amused. “Go on.”

“Stay with the king,” Treville ordered his men, who nodded and agreed, clearly hopelessly relieved to have Richelieu gone. “Protect him. Come find me if-“

“I’m not going to die, Treville,” Louis said, shaking his head and gestured for them to go.

Treville bowed, hearing the rattle of Richelieu’s lungs as he bowed as well.

Had they been younger, he would have physically dragged Richelieu forwards, arguing all the while.

Instead he grabbed the man by the elbow, making sure that he did not fall asleep or faint, then hit his head on the stone floor because his frail body refused to keep him upright.

“Come on, then, you silk-swaddled bag of bones,” Treville told Richelieu, whose eyes kept falling shut and then snapping open again. “Let’s get you inside your damn office.”

They walked as fast as they could, Treville’s boots thudding on the floor and silk sliding over stone.

People swerved to avoid them, they even turned on their heel and started walking in the other direction.

“How inventive,” Richelieu said. “What are you planning on doing with me?”

His voice was low and dangerous, as if he was wondering if Treville was going to kill him and then thrown his body out the window.

Treville shrugged, opening the door to Richelieu’s office, practically shoving him inside.

And then he slammed the door shut so hard that anyone that heard it would not dare to interrupt them.

“I was planning on stealing a carriage, then shoving you into my office and having my way with you on the cot,” he said as soon as Richelieu had turned to face him again, looking absolutely enraged at being handled like a misbehaving cat. “After we’d already spent some quality time together in the carriage, of course.”

“And you abandoned that plan, why?”

“The noise would disturb the men,” Treville said. “And the cot is rather small, I’m not sure that it would survive the encounter.”

“How sensible of you,” Richelieu muttered, as if he’d never expected to say that to Treville.

“Instead I’m going to wreck you, so that you’ll become so exhausted that you’ll fall asleep,” Treville finished, pleased with this new plan.

“And here I was, thinking that you were just going to knock me out,” Richelieu said.

“Oh, that is still on the table,” Treville said, seeing how Richelieu was licking his lips.

The price of riding this fast was the inevitable crash.

A carriage, no matter if it was made of wood or flesh, could only take so much stain.

They both knew this.

It was impossible to make it this far without doing so.

Richelieu pulled him close, his hand snaking around Treville’s waist, the other one at the back of his head. There was nothing gentle about it, no soft kisses or reassuring words.

Instead there were teeth, a hat on the floor and far more cat hair than there should be.

Later, there would be bruises.

And bite marks.

Scratches, too.

Richelieu would sleep, finally, lying on top of the desk like the overworked asshole that he was.

They were a tragedy.

They’d been one from the start.

Did it matter?

In this moment, where there was nothing but the touch of lips against skin, nothing but the tangled limbs and sheer joy of having had the gift of being alive at the same time?

No.

You took what you could, you grabbed it with both hands.

And you lived.

As well as you could, no matter if it led you into danger, into ruin, into hell itself.

Because so often, life was worth the harm.

Seeing the gleam of victory in the eyes of the tiniest recruit when he’d finally learned how to use a sword properly, watching as the king settled into his role more with every day, hearing the silk rustling over stone as Richelieu approached in a mood that promised both agony and ecstasy in the same breath.

And this, always this.

They’d make the most of the time that they had, demanding for the winged chariot of time to stop for them, if just for half an hour. Fifteen minutes. Ten.

Later, Treville would sit in Richelieu’s chair, having dragged it away from the desk. He’d eat the apples that Richelieu always kept in that bowl and allow himself to rest. Just for a moment, listening to the silence of the room being broken by Armand’s sleepy muttering about his cats. Perhaps he should have found the man a proper bed instead of making him use books as a pillow.

Not that it mattered much, Richelieu was lost to the world at this point.

He’d just have to make sure to be in the same bed as he was tonight, if he tried to get away with staying awake.

But that was a problem that could be dealt with when the time came.

For now, he could enjoy himself until his men became convinced that Richelieu had killed him and hidden the corpse away in his office, at which point they would try to break down the door.

An inevitable event, for sure.

Treville picked up his hat from the floor, put it on his head and lowered the brim so that it covered his eyes. Then he breathed out, apple core forgotten in his hand.

And he slept, too.

**Author's Note:**

> You might think that I have some chill. Let me tell you now, reader, I have none.


End file.
